


Be Mindful

by Highsmith (quimtessence)



Category: Dracula & Related Fandoms, Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blood As Lube, Creampie, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, Episode: S01E01 The Rules of the Beast, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Bottoming, Infidelity, M/M, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Rough Sex, Size Kink, The Rules of the Beast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quimtessence/pseuds/Highsmith
Summary: He has, perhaps, failed not only himself, but Mina as well.
Relationships: Count Dracula/Jonathan Harker
Comments: 27
Kudos: 472





	Be Mindful

**Author's Note:**

> I have only watched the first episode as of this moment. Instead of going to the second straight away I wrote this.

He has, perhaps, failed not only himself, but Mina as well.

Failed by not being vigilant.

Failed by not seeking that which should have resided within himself to resist, for he thoughtlessly resisted not.

An utmost failure on any and all counts, it seems.

*

The penetrating gaze. That might have been it. The start of it. Across a table by candlelight. Laughably clichéd.

*

Talk of employers, and the good vintage currently wetting his lips and his appetite, or maybe even the seclusion deeper and deeper into a snowbound world almost utterly lacking any civilising elements. All of them distractions. All welcomed by Jonathan unwittingly.

The Count is.

Currently joking. A joke. A linguistic faux-pas. Jonathan understands fully how the English language may prove cumbersome to someone getting on in age when that someone may have no real reason to speak it. Utterly understandable. May prove charming to London society of a certain calibre. Perhaps even Jonathan himself feels charmed, and thus he laughs, and flatters but a little. Nearly mishears the words. That one word.

"No," the Count utters, stone-faced and sombre.

No, Jonathan does not mishear. As the Count comes hobbling nearer, closer, he realises for the first time there may be a predicament afoot. And, perhaps later, if he should recall the conversation to himself or others, he makes a mental note that he should make no mention of the touch. No mention, furthermore, of the lingering phantom shiver in its wake.

*

That night, the _first_ night of many, he sleeps, and dreams. Wine well beyond his usual intake aids nicely, though he told himself several times throughout supper that he should not indulge. Doing so rarely while in England has certainly not improved his tolerance to it, and the vintage is such that he feels almost compelled to not let it go to waste. Thus his dreams come quickly and last until dawn in feverish waves of sensation and half-waking.

He has had this particular dream before, only this time he gets but a glance at golden locks. Blink and he almost misses the sight entirely. In its stead he finds a creased face and greyish hair and the unnatural sharpness of teeth which can surely only come from a dream.

He is dreaming, and he knows even in his unconscious state that to be true. His heartbeat quiets only slightly at that thought. He is not the sort of man to stray even in his mind's eye. But he finds himself doing just that. It is, after all, but a dream.

(Come morning he will have reason to believe it all a dream in its ludicrousness, apart from his clothes hanging haphazardly by the bed and the mess between his legs and the small tears in the seams and the ache where his thighs meet his groin and the scattering of torn buttons across his chambers and the flecks of white on the underside of his buttocks. But the sun will shine too brightly, reminding Jonathan he is an Englishman and, well.)

It all seems to happen all at once, whether by virtue of the logic of dreams or Jonathan's own eagerness, he does not know. Both perhaps. Even though he has gone to bed clothed, he finds himself swiftly exiting his clothes in fits and tears, possibly though vaguely assisted in this endeavour. He wishes to watch it happen, but his eyes can barely stay half-open, much less fully so and observant as well. His focus seems to be shifting from knife-like teeth to sunken brows to a reddish... something... _everywhere_. Only the sudden pain at the side of his neck snaps his attention back to powerful-looking shoulders covering him, the feel of his legs getting kneed apart in his nakedness, and his wrists limp by the sides of his head.

His neck is bleeding. The pain is both immediate and warming. Those should not be things which go together, but his mind is telling him that is so. Fingers at his wound bring what is most decidedly his blood before his own eyes, and then a mouth, thin and corpse-like, sups from them his very life essence. The red is starkly present in a way Jonathan has never considered. Various trips from mouth to neck bring forth more and more of it, the repetition soothing to his unfocused eyes. Idly, it does occur to him to wonder why his mind has decided on such a dream, but the thought is fleeting.

The fingers then collect his blood for longer than the previous times, then the wetness of lips probes at his neck. What little pain there was vanishes, but the collected blood does not go to waste, oh no, the palmful is reaching for him, down and down further still, until he can feel them, fingers where no person's have ever been before, opening him up gingerly, almost tentatively, a slight initial burn and stretch followed by friction, glorious friction. He gasps, then keens at the back of his throat, the stretch now turned luxurious as if in anticipation of even _more_ delights.

He bites at his lip hard enough to draw blood himself at the feel of fingers retracting and being replaced with something thicker. Jonathan knows what is happening now, although the truth might just be he's known all along where this would lead. It is, after all, his own mind concocting such imaginings.

The cock pushing into him is thick enough to have his toes curling where they lie on the sheets, his calves and thighs burning from how his entire body is contracting around it. It pushes in slowly, millimetre by milimetre, a rough glide in regardless. Seemingly, Jonathan fades in and out, perhaps visiting other dreamscapes he cannot remember afterwards, but he returns to the moment when that cock's all the way inside. The muscles in his groin ache. Pulling out just as slowly as it pushed in, the body above him wastes no time at all thrusting back in.

The pace is too fast, too rough by half. A continuous _slap slap slap_ of skin accompanies Jonathan's moans, which themselves feel ripped from his throat. His own cock lies fat and leaking between their body. As much as he wishes to reach for it, his hands are still by his head, wrists facing the ceiling as if in offering. But a helping hand finds him soon enough. He opens his legs wider to it all, that much he can do, and the pace increases accordingly, has him moaning and whining for it, more than a little desperate.

He can feel the mess inside. With one final thrust, the Count (for of course it has been him all along) spurts inside him, hot and deep and too much for one person, surely. Jonathan himself comes to it a few moments afterwards, though not nearly as much. It runs down his belly in viscous streams. The ache settles in almost immediately, but it is a satisfying one, welcomed and delicious.

Then he sleeps.

*

The sun shines too brightly. In its light, dreams seem far away.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://rhubarbdreams.tumblr.com/)


End file.
